The Black and the White
by Akai Shi-Koret
Summary: A take on Isshu's history, with a twist. All characters are Pokemon gijinka. A tale of deceit, war, and a game between gods.
1. Prologue

It begins!

I've been kicking around this idea for quite some time now, largely based on an actual event that's occurred during my playthrough of Black version and expanded upon. I have no idea how often this will be updated. I have no idea if I'll ever finish this, due to school and other concerns (and a lack of a concrete plot at this time). But I intend to at least share this small bit. I hope you enjoy.

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The being entered the room as he had so many times before, through a simple white door. The space around him was completely devoid of anything – a white nebula that extended forever, reaching out as far as you could imagine. He closed the door behind him softly, steeling himself mentally for what was about to happen. It had been almost three hundred years since the last time he'd been here, three hundred years since the cataclysm that had shaken Isshu to the very core had occurred. He remembered it all now, so vividly, as he stared blankly at the white surface of the portal he had come through. He'd lost that game – not by much, but enough to make his mouth taste bitter at the memory. The being closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the memory. He had to focus on what was to come, not on what had already been.

The being turned around, looking away from the door at the space beyond. A simple wooden table sat a few paces away, perched on what appeared to be a smoothly polished floor that extended in all directions as far as one could see. Resting atop the table was what appeared to be a chessboard, though not a conventional one. The board was huge, far larger than a regulation chessboard and boasting far more spaces than any that existed on Earth. It covered the entire table, save for a sliver of wood on either end. No pieces were set up on the board, not yet at least. The being had given some though to whom he would choose, but until the game began he had all the time in the world to make a decision.

As he stared at the board, a sudden dark cloud rolled through the space, ominously covering the half of the void that rested across the table from the being. A black door, spaced equally from the chessboard as the being's door, appeared. It swung open noiselessly, admitting another being. Rather than dress in the simple white attire of his counterpart, the newcomer wore a jet-black jacket the extended down to his ankles and matching clothing underneath. He grinned as he noticed his white-robed companion standing across from him. "I knew you'd come," he said in a voice that crackled like electricity. "You always do." He gestured at the board before them. "Shall we begin?"

Wordlessly, the being took his place at the table, sliding into the familiar seat with a soft rasp of silk. Across from him his opponent did the same, smiling back at him through razor-sharps fangs. "Are you prepared, Reshiram?" the black being asked, his grin widening. "I'd hate for this to turn out like the last game we played." It chuckled softly, the noise rolling around like thunder.

Reshiram kept his face impassive. "You should be wary, Zekrom," he said in a voice like the low crackle of flames. "I will not lose this time." His hands flexed underneath the table. The game had yet to start. His opponent's words meant nothing.

Zekrom's grin widened. "As you say," he said with a bow of his head. "I look forward to our game then. Choose your piece." The dark being swept his hand out in a grand gesture, indicating the board before them. "I trust you've chosen someone better than last time, yes?" he said, giving Reshiram another grin.

Reshiram stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the black-and-white tiles of the board. He'd given much thought to whom he'd chose as a starting piece. The game's outcome would hinge largely on who he picked, and naturally his opponent had spent just as much time selecting his. Reshiram was fairly confident he knew who Zekrom had chosen, but it was a matter of selecting someone he knew would be able to trump his opponent's piece. His mind passed over his potential pieces again, reviewing, categorizing, and revising the list. Finally, only one remained. Without flourish, Reshiram lifted his hand from beneath the table, a white marble figure in his hand. With confidence, the being set the piece on the board with a soft clack.

Zekrom's electric blue eyes locked onto the piece as his opponent placed it on the board. "Interesting," he said to himself. "I hadn't thought you'd take him." His eyes stayed fixed on the white piece for a few moments more as he thought to himself, head nodding slightly. Reshiram waited patiently, watching his opponent carefully. He knew that he'd done the opposite of what Zekrom had expected, but it was a risky gamble. The person he'd picked was complicated, and difficult to control, but the white being had a feeling that it was the key to victory.

Now all that remained was for Zekrom to finish choosing. The dark being still had a chance to select someone that Reshiram hadn't thought of, but Zekrom rarely deviated once he'd come to a determination. True to form, as the black being brought his hand down onto the board, clutching a simple black figure, Reshiram saw that it was exactly whom he'd thought it would be. "Predictable as always," the white being said dryly. "Subtlety was never your strong point." Inwardly, Reshiram felt a glimmer of hope. His opponent's choice was a tough individual, and cunning, but not invincible. Zekrom had gone ahead with his plan despite the conditions having been changed; a game-threatening mistake, Reshiram hoped.

Zekrom laughed at the white being's remark. "We'll see if it's necessary by the end of the game," he said, somewhat menacingly. "You have the first move." The dark being sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest while he waited for Reshiram to begin the game.

Reshiram for his part sat motionlessly, staring at the board again. The first move was critical, and he knew that once he'd started the game nothing could be changed. Isshu would be shaken once more, and at the end of the game would be altered forever. Every move he made would affect that change, for good or for ill, and once made there was no turning back. For an uncountable amount of time the two beings sat at the board, neither moving as they both plotted ahead, twisting strategies and devising paths to victory in their heads. Finally, after the interminable interlude, Reshiram reached out a hand. "Let the game begin," he said as he made his first move.


	2. Chapter 1

And so it begins! I had no intention of writing the rest of this when I first published the prologue, but I managed to think of a convincing way to start the story, at least. Again, I have no idea of whether or not I'll write any more for this, but at the very least I have a start. This is a very rough draft - I haven't thought of a few names that I probably should have (such as the name of the keep), but again, I don't really know if I'll keep writing this so it's all good. I do not own Pokemon, but I do own the OCs.

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Chapter One

Altair Garned was shaken roughly awake into the predawn darkness. "Wake up, chick," someone was saying. "We got a big assignment coming our way."

Altair shook off the foreign hands, blinking rapidly to wake himself up. The barracks, which should have been pitch-black at this time of night, were illuminated softly by the torchlight that spilled in through the open door. In the dim half-light, Altair could make out the shapes of his fellow Unfezant wingmates as they rose from their sleeping nests, stretching themselves out anxiously and sliding on their flying leathers. Altair stood as well, reaching for his boots which we'd left at the foot of his nest. "What's going on?" he asked the still-unknown person who'd woken him up.

"Shut up and put on your gear, chick," the voice came again, and Altair finally recognized its owner – Kallen, the wingthird and one of the few in the Third Wing that seemed to dislike Altair. "We got a job to deal with. Newbies like you don't need to know about it." Though it was too dark to make out his expression, Altair knew Kallen was glaring at him.

"Stuff it Kallen," a commanding voice called out from across the room. This one Altair recognized instantly – Cyen, the wingsecond and Kallen's superior. "Altair's no chick and he's a better flier than you'll ever be. Don't think I've forgotten what happened during that windstorm last autumn." The other members of the wing chuckled as Kallen gave Altair one final, furious look before moving off. Altair smiled. He'd never been told exactly what the incident had been – he'd only been with the Third Wing for about a month now and hadn't had the time to ask – but evidently it was highly embarrassing, since the rest of the wing never let Kallen forget it. He allowed himself approximately five seconds of gloating over his foe's shaming before returning to the task at hand – preparing himself for flight.

"So what exactly is going on?" Altair asked one of the nearby wing members as he tightened his greaves. "Do you know why we've been called out?" He'd never seen the whole Third Wing called out like this before. Typically the whole group would be out of the barracks on any given day, delivering messages for the keep's inhabitants, but at least in his experience the entire wing had never been mobilized all at once. Altair had a gut feeling that this was something important, and his wings fluttered nervously on his back.

"Apparently the whole Third Wing's been called out for an assignment," came the reply as his companion bent over, presumably lacing up his boots. "And get this – the king himself wants to see us." The man flashed Altair what must have been a grin. "Could be good for us, eh?"

Altair was dumbfounded. "Since when does the king ever need the Third Wing?" he asked, all thought of preparation totally lost. "Doesn't he normally choose someone from the First?" The messages delivered to and from the keep relied on three different twenty-man squads known as wings. The First Wing was reserved for the explicit use of the King and his military advisors, as well as any other members of import of his council. They were the best of the best fliers and skilled in combat as well – hence their importance. The Second Wing was used by the rest of the royal family and by any visiting dignitaries from the fiefdoms, while the Third Wing was for use by any of the other inhabitants of the keep, from the cooks to the laundry maids. Its members were still far better than most of Isshu's flying populace as a result of the stringent acceptance protocols that were in place, but they were nowhere near as good as those in the First Wing - and yet, for some reason the King had asked for the entire Third Wing. Altair wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was clearly unorthodox.

"Usually, sure," the other Unfezant said as he slid on a leather jerkin imprinted with the royal family's sigil. "Look, I don't know what's going on any more than you do. But if I was you, I'd hurry it up and get dressed. The guard who woke us up said he'd be back in ten minutes and expects us ready by then." Altair snapped back into focus, returning to lacing his greaves. He'd have time enough to worry about it later.

True to his wingmate's word, within another few minutes the armored form of an Escavalier guard appeared in the doorway to the barracks, blocking what little light did trickle through and thwarting Altair's efforts to finish tightening his jerkin. "Alright you lot, with me," he commanded, waving his candy-striped lance. "His Majesty is getting impatient."

"You heard him," Cyen said from somewhere in the darkened room. "Third Wing, move out, ready or not." Altair suddenly found himself being jostled as the twenty Unfezant headed for the door, small curses filling the air as the wing members stepped on each other's feet or rubbed up against each other's wings. Altair for his part redoubled his attempts to tighten the leather jerkin, but the straps lay on his back and he hadn't the room to move his wings out of the way far enough to get at them. Panic set in as the room began to empty out. It was just his luck – their first major assignment and he was going to miss it.

But suddenly a pair of hands found their way between Altair's wings and seized the straps, pulling them tight and expertly knotting them together. "There you are, kid," Cyen said from behind Altair, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly way. "Now let's get going, huh? The wingleader's going to be pissed if we don't present a full wing to the king." Without another word the wingsecond walked by Altair, slipping out the door and disappearing into the hall beyond. The young Unfezant stared after him for a second before realizing with a jolt that he was the only one left in the barracks. He jogged for the door, smiling slightly. Cyen had taken a liking to him ever since Altair had applied for the position in the Third Wing. He'd been one of the evaluators during the Unfezant's trial and defended him from the wing members who weren't happy with his nomination. Altair couldn't understand why, but appreciated the efforts. Cyen made him feel more at home.

The Third Wing and their insect guide moved silently through the stone hallways of the keep, passing by windows and arrow slits that were still black from the night sky. Brilliantly orange torches mounted in steel brackets illuminated the way, creating shadowy versions of the wing members that blended and slid together as they passed by. Butterfree fluttered in Altair's stomach during the entire trip and the young Unfezant's hands and fingers flew constantly over his leather armor, checking and double-checking that the straps were tight. Back when he had been just a baker's son, Altair had never dreamed of even seeing the king – and here he was, on his way to meet him. The idea was both excited and terrifying at the same time – terrifying because of what Altair had heard about the man. The current ruler, King Hydrax, was known for his short temper and his brutal nature that he directed at his foes and subjects alike. Rumor had it that he used to be a much calmer person, but over the years he'd grown increasingly prone to violent outbursts. This was put down to a variety of reasons – failure to procure an heir, increasing resentment towards his wife, or perhaps tensions with the fiefdom rulers. Whatever the case, meetings with the King of Isshu were increasingly more likely to result in bloodshed.

After a ten-minute walk through the keep, the Escavalier guard finally brought them to the gigantic wooden doors that led to the throne room. Altair's breath caught in his throat at the sight and his wings fluttered out anxiously, attracting a few dirty looks from his wingmates. Before anyone could tell him off though, the guard had pushed open the doors and ushered the group inside. Altair thought he heard the man whisper "good luck" as he walked by, but then the portals slammed shut behind them and the Unfezant turned his attention to the far end of the room.

The throne room was dark, lit only by a pair of braziers that burned on either side of the throne itself. A black carpet led from the doors to the foot of the massive black-iron seat and the tapestries hanging from the walls depicted scenes from ancient wars – bloody battles that had resulted in thousands of lives lost. The throne itself was a monolith of dark steel, smooth and polished and seemingly without any joins or crevices. Wicked spikes rose up all about it, some at least as tall as Altair himself. He knew from a history lesson he'd once had that that ominous throne had once been the seat of the god Reshiram, back when the Vast White being had walked Isshu. It had formerly been white, and the chamber along with it, but when Hydrax's ancestors had laid ahold of the crown the seat had been stained black to mark their new hold on Isshu. The tainted seat's presence made Altair feel uneasy, as though something was not entirely right with the space that existed within the throne room, and he tried to avoid looking at it.

But the figure on the throne was no less imposing. Altair almost didn't notice the man at first, but as the Third Wing drew closer he could make out the shape of a man sitting in the seat – a man far larger than anyone Altair had ever seen before. The King of Isshu was at least seven feet tall, possibly even eight, though the Unfezant couldn't tell based on his seated position. He was clad in an elegant black tunic that bore his family's sigil and dark leggings and boots that made him almost blend into the throne he was seated upon. Though his hair fell over his face and obscured his vision, Altair knew that the king was watching the Unfezant as they approached, just as a hunter stalking his prey would. He shuddered at the thought and tried to avoid looking at the dark figure, but his gaze was somehow always drawn back to the man. The Dragon King's mere presence radiated power and Altair had the feeling that even among gods he'd be impossible to ignore.

So preoccupied with the man was he that Altair almost missed the whispered order for the wing to line up and kneel before their ruler. He hastily stepped between two of the wing members, creating a small space for him to stand and fell to his knees, grateful that he no longer needed to look at the Dragon King. From somewhere off to his left, Altair heard the voice of the wingleader, Effern, speak. "The Third Wing, my lord," he said, voice reverent. "As you commanded."

A short pause filled the air before the king responded with a single word: "Rise." His voice was as dark as the throne on which he sat and sent shivers up Altair's spine. Fortunately however, there was no hint of malevolence in the king's order – he hadn't decided to kill them, yet. Altair hastily stood alongside the rest of the wing and snapped to attention, looking straight ahead and pointedly ignoring the throne. His wings made an attempt to ruffle, an involuntary expression of Altair's unease, but the Unfezant forced himself to be absolutely still. _This is our big chance_, he reminded himself.

"You must be wondering why I summoned you, the Third Wing," King Hydrax continued, his voice sliding across the room like oil. "To be completely frank, I wish for utmost secrecy in this operation. The First Wing, while better fliers than you all, would be missed if they all disappeared from their quarters. Similarly, word would get out if the entire Second Wing was dispatched on an errand. But you are always coming and going from the keep and will be little missed should you be absent for an extended amount of time. I'm certain that no one will noticed nor care if all twenty of you are gone – which suits my purposes just fine." A hint of dark satisfaction tinged the end of Hydrax's sentence and the ruler paused for a second, undoubtedly reveling in his own intelligence.

"You will all be given a single message to deliver," the dark King went on. "These will be taken to the rulers of the fiefdoms, one each – you will be told by the captain of the guard to whom each letter is meant. You are to travel as swiftly as possible and deliver the messages, then return with a reply from each lord. Do _not_ return without one," he said, the sudden vehemence in his voice making Altair wince. "I expect to hear from all of you within three weeks' time – any later than that and your services as a member of the Third Wing will no longer be required. Should I discover that you have read the contents of your message, you will be executed in the most painfully creative way I can devise – and trust me," he said, smile clear in his voice, "I have had plenty of time to come up with ways to cause pain."

The King let his warning sink in momentarily. "Any questions?" The room was dead silent in response to that query – everyone knew better than to speak.

"It will be done, my lord," Effern said, bowing shortly. "We'll leave at daybreak." He took a half step backwards, expecting to be dismissed, but Hydrax made no move to let them go. "Is there something else, your majesty?" the wingleader asked, nervousness creeping into his tone.

"Yes there is," Hydrax said, neutrally. "I require the best flier of your group to stay behind. I have another job for him to complete." The silence that followed was broken by the uneasy shuffling of the twenty members of the Third Wing. Altair's wings fluttered slightly on his back and the Butterfree in his stomach seemed to have doubled in number. He didn't have any chance of being selected for this secret assignment – that duty most likely belonged to Effern, the wingleader – but the thought of being alone in the dark chamber with the Dragon King was terrifying. More concerning still was the unknown assignment. What could be so important that only one person could know about it?

The pause following the king's statement was broken by Cyen's voice. "I nominate Altair Garned, your majesty," he said boldly, taking a step forward. "He's young, and new to the wing, but I've never seen anyone as fast as he is. He's also smaller than any of us and better suited for stealth." He stepped back into the line of Unfezant smartly, keeping his eyes directed straight ahead.

Altair for his part was utterly shocked. Cyen had defied convention and spoke before the wingleader – and not only that, had nominated the member with the least experience. Altair certainly didn't feel that he was qualified for such a mission and tried to speak up and tell the king that Cyen had made a mistake, but his voice wasn't working. All around him the other Unfezant gave him and Cyen sideways glances and Kallen was simply furious, but no one dared say a word – not even Effern. All ears strained, waiting on the king's next words.

For his part, Hydrax sounded somewhat more interested than he had before. "And you are?" he asked Cyen, amused. "I don't believe you are the wingleader of this group, are you?"

Cyen quailed slightly under the king's direct gaze, but his voice was as strong as ever. "Cyen Laness, wingsecond," he responded.

The king's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Interesting," he said, turning his attention to Effern, who was standing at complete attention and acting as though Cyen didn't exist. "What say you, wingleader?"

Effern didn't respond immediately, instead taking a few seconds to think before answering. "Cyen is right," he finally replied through tight lips. "Altair is your best choice, your majesty." Kallen, who was standing off to the wingleader's left, opened his mouth to make a furious retort but a single glare from Effern cut him off. The wingthird settled back into the line, but shot Altair a venomous glare. The young Unfezant for his part had no idea why Kallen was so upset, but had no time to worry about it. His nomination had just been seconded by none other than the wingleader. Unless the king had an objection to using the most inexperienced member of the group…

And then Hydrax's head turned in Altair's direction and the young man found himself almost unable to breathe. "What say you, Garned?" the Hydreigon asked, the half-smile still curling his lip.

Altair took a deep breath, forcing the panic away. He could always have lied and said that he was feeling unwell, or tried to pass the job to someone more qualified, but he knew that the king's mind was already made up. There was only answer he could give. His voice shaking slightly, Altair responded: "I accept the duty, your majesty, if you so wish."

"And I do, I do," the Dragon said, smile widening slightly. "The rest of you are dismissed. You shall receive further instruction from Lancelot, the captain of the guard. Messenger Garned shall stay here."

The response was swift and to the point: "As you wish, my lord." The rest of the wing bowed and made for the doors, not a single man looking back at Altair, who was still frozen in fear. The Unfezant desperately wished to be following his wingmates out of the chamber, but the dark king held him back. His mind went through thousands of possibilities of what the king could possibly want with him, each one worse than the last. Why had Cyen nominated him? He thought that the man was his friend.

It was until the doors boomed shut behind him that the king began speaking again. "Your mission is more important than the others," the Hydreigon said, and Altair knew he was staring directly at him. "You shall tell no one, not even your wingmates, what I have assigned for you. You will be delivering three different messages for me. The first is for the lord of the Drift Sea, in the south of the region – the venerable Lord Pringles and his court. It should be an easy enough task for a skilled messenger like you, but the real purpose is not the message itself. It is to make anyone following believe that that is your only stop." Altair nodded slowly. He'd never been that far south, but it sounded easy enough.

"The second message is not to a fiefdom ruler," the king went on, leaning closer to Altair and speaking softer and more quickly. "There is a small band of warriors to the east of Isshu, living in the ancient ruins out in the Bay of Undella. They are a fierce breed that have been fighting since Isshu's creation and there are few who can equal their prowess in battle. You shall deliver the second message to them – though be warned, they have no love for me or my court." He gave another half-smile at Altair, as though amused.

The Unfezant nodded again, the movement barely perceptible. He'd heard little about the warriors, but knew them by the stories he'd heard travelers tell. According to one such wayfarer, the eastern route was practically blockaded by the savages and anyone who'd tried to visit the ruins or establish a town in the area had been met with swift and brutal retribution. Altair had no idea why the king would need to communicate with such savages, but trying to get a message to them was liable to get him killed or worse.

"The third message is to one of the northern tribes," Hydrax continued, speaking even softer. "There is a large tribe of Bisharp, led by a man known as Saikan. The message should be given directly to him, and to no one else. Do you understand this?" Altair nodded twice, slowly, face blank to mask the confusion he felt inside. A message to a fiefdom ruler, an ancient warrior tribe and a Bisharp clan. What was the purpose? Only one of them was under Hydrax's rule and would be likely to respond. The Bisharp clans were nominally included in the Kingdom, but were a law unto themselves and obeyed no one unless they so chose. Likewise, the eastern tribe was completely out from under the Dark Throne's rule. Why then would Hydrax wish to communicate with them?

Altair's musings were interrupted by another draconic half-smile. "Good," the ruler of Isshu said, leaning back in his seat. "You shall have a month to complete your task. I do not personally expect you to make it home, but should you accomplish the feat you shall be richly rewarded." He gestured towards the door. "The captain of the guard shall furnish you with further information. Now go."

Altair turned away, barely remembering to bow, and made his way step by shaking step towards the door. His mind was still reeling with the mission he'd been given and he felt physically sick. He would be flying over almost all of Isshu, and into some of the most dangerous parts. Altair had never been far beyond the borders of the capital and certainly never into the north of the realm. While it was certain that most of the other Third Wing members hadn't been too far from the keep either, they still possessed a measure of experience greater than he did. Cyen's nomination of him felt like a betrayal – though then again, how could he have known the dangers that lay ahead?

These thoughts and more clouded Altair's brain until the door to the throne room finally banged shut behind him. Almost immediately Altair felt a little better being back in the presence of the warm torches and away from both the dark king and his dark throne. The weight of the mission which he'd been given still hung over him, but Altair felt more confident now. Cyen had called him their best flier, and while it certainly wasn't true, he was going to act as though it was. He had no choice but to try his best.

Waiting for Altair was the same Escavalier guard who'd escorted them to the throne room earlier. "You're the special one?" he queried, giving Altair a skeptical look. At a nod from the Unfezant though, the guard was all business. "This way," he ordered, heading off down the hallway without so much as a backwards glance. Altair hurried after him, staying just behind the bug knight. His wings, kept so still for so long, fluttered out the sides again in response to the physical exercise, catching the air and drifting along behind the messenger like a cape. He'd need to stretch thoroughly before he left, but given the size of his wings and narrow passageways, that was the best he could for now.

"My name is Lancelot," the guard said as they walked. "I am the Captain of the Guard here, and of Hydrax's most trusted servants. And you are?" he asked with a sideways look.

"Altair Garned," the Unfezant responded, a little awkwardly. He'd heard of Lancelot before – the soldier was constantly flitting around the keep and checking security – but had never met him in person before.

Lancelot nodded. "A fine name," he said as they reached a stone flight of stairs. "I'm taking you to the roof now," he said as they began the ascent. "You'll be leaving as one of the first messengers, at the break of dawn. You are to fly for twenty minutes in a random direction before making for your first destination." He reached into his breastplate, withdrawing a trio of envelopes made of thick paper. "Keep these somewhere safe," he cautioned, "and remember to tell no one of your mission."

Altair accepted the letters, tucking them away in the small leather bag that was part of his flying kit. "I won't," he said as they wound their way up through one of the many stone towers of the keep. He remembered all too well what Hydrax had told their wing and didn't doubt that he'd be killed or worse if he revealed the assignment.

The pair of humanoids made the rest of the trip up through the tower in silence, each one preoccupied with their own thoughts. After a few minutes of steady walking, they finally emerged from the depths of the stone keep and into the dark night air. The roof was deserted, which made Altair sigh in relief. He didn't want to deal with Kallen or any of the other wingmembers, especially not just before he had to leave, or Cyen. The wingsecond's strange behavior was puzzling, but Altair couldn't afford to get mixed up with thinking about it now. Flying for such a long distance was going to be taxing, and he'd need to prepare himself both mentally and physically. Stepping away from the guard, Altair immediately began his stretching exercises, loosening his body out. Cyen would have to wait for when he got back.

"I'll be fetching the first five messengers now," Lancelot said, already headed back to the stairs. "Don't leave until daybreak now, and remember what I told you." He disappeared into the recesses of the tower again with a shout of "good luck!" leaving Altair alone to focus on his preparations. Within a half-hour or so, the Escavalier reappeared on the stairs, followed by a group of five Unfezant. Altair didn't recognize three of them, but alongside the unknowns were both Kallen and Cyen. The former leered unpleasantly at the sight of Altair, while the latter simply gave a knowing smile.

"Having fun?" Kallen asked, voice bitter. "I didn't know that we gave the newbies the most important assignments around here. Shouldn't that be reserved for the wingleaders?"

"Stow it, Kallen," Cyen snapped, giving the man a glare. "We've got more important things to do than complain about who got what job." The wingthird returned the rebuke with a short snort, but said nothing else. Satisfied that Kallen was sufficiently cowed, Cyen brought his attention to bear on the other three wingmembers. "Get started on your stretches. We've all got a long ways to go today and not a lot of time before the sun comes up. "

As the other wingmembers, Kallen included, began their routine, Cyen approached Altair. "Listen, I know there're a lot of things you want to ask me," he said, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "But know that everything I said back there was true – you _are_ the best flier in the wing and the best suited for whatever assignment the king gave you." He dropped his arms, stepping back slightly. "Alright, go ahead."

Altair wasn't quite sure what he was expected to say. He'd never had a chance to simply _talk_ with a wingleader before and stumbled a few times over his words before he finally managed to eke out a quiet "Why?"

Cyen gave him a small, knowing smile. "I just told you," he said with a small chuckle. "Believe it or not, you're better than anyone else in the Third Wing, myself, Kallen, and Effern included. Besides, this is your chance to prove yourself to the king! If you do well enough, maybe he'll reward you," he finished with a wink.

Altair shook his head, uncomprehending, but before he could ask Cyen again the wingsecond was pointing over his shoulder. "Look," he was saying. "Sun's coming up. Time for you to get going." Altair pivoted, gazing out towards the horizon. The sky was considerably lighter than it had been minutes before and the temperature had slightly increased as well. Anxiety shot through Altair at the sight and he felt in his messenger bag nervously, checking to make sure that all three letters were still there. "You'll be fine, Altair," Cyen said encouragingly. "When we all get back, tell me about that mission of yours, huh?" He slapped Altair reassuringly on the back. "Now off with you!"

The Unfezant hesitated for another second, unwilling to leave Cyen without an answer, but he really didn't have a choice any longer. The sky was brightening fast and before long it would be too light to conceal his departure. With a sharp intake of breath, Altair sprinted for the other side of the roof, moving as fast as he could. He lightly leapt atop one of the merlons that dotted the tower, crouching as low as he dared before leaping as far up and away from the ground as he could. His wings snapped open, pumping as hard as they could to keep him aloft; in the cold morning air, Altair had no updrafts to work with. It was going to be a long, hard morning for flying, but in the short span of time he'd had with the Third Wing, Altair had gotten much better at flying in these conditions.

He banked sharply, circling the tower and taking one last look down at his comrades. The others were still engaged in their exercises and paid him no attention, but Cyen was looking up and watching him go. He waved once at Altair before the Unfezant turned away from the tower, heading south over the keep's walls. He was on his way now, off to the four corners of Isshu on a secret assignment for the king himself. Though he had no idea what awaited him, Altair was determined to complete his mission. After all, what was the worst that could happen?


End file.
